The Guest Room
by Kiki Cabou
Summary: Death tells a story. Set after "The Wake."


Hi! My name's Kiki. I just finished reading all eleven volumes of the Sandman, and while I don't consider myself an expert about any of these characters, I love Death and decided that her just standing there and looking pretty at The Wake didn't do it for me. So here's her story.

Disclaimer: I own nada. Not "Nada," but nada. :D

Category: Drama, character POV

Rating: PG-13 for bad words.

Warning: If you haven't gotten all the way through the books, please don't read this.

THE GUEST ROOM

I never expected Morphie to act the way he did. I mean, most people, when they die, they're ready for it. Those who aren't, well, they… have problems. Victims of torture are the trickiest. You have to be extra careful with anyone who's killed by a psycho. They usually freak out just because their death was so traumatic. So they hold onto me like I'm an angel of mercy, and they cry on my shirt and flip out from the terror and the loneliness and the reality that this is the end, that their life is done. Whether they ended in a basement or an alley or a bathtub, with whatever horror standing over them, they're finished. So I shush them and bundle them up and tell them everything will be okay, and I take them to the Way Station where they can recover properly before being sent on to wherever they go. Because seriously, I don't know where anyone goes after they reach me.

Sucks, doesn't it? I'm this all-powerful, life-ending thing, and I can't give anybody a goddamn straight answer.

_"Am I going to heaven? Am I going to hell?" _

_"Beats me, kid.__ You'll just have to find out for yourself. Sorry."_

But I digress.

My brother is dead. I killed him. Some people will say the job killed him, because he really did take it too seriously. It ate his life. Personally, I think Desire killed him, with all of its meddling pranks and toying with his emotions… and so help me, I'm going to kick that dick/cunt's ass the second I get the chance. But the reality is that I took his hand. I took him away. I took him away from everyone, including me. It feels terrible.

Tch. "King of Dreams." "Prince of Stories." It's all honorific bullcrap. To me, he'll always be Morphie. My Morphie. He'd give me nightmares forever if he heard me calling him that, but he's my little brother. Shit. Was. Excuse me. Anyway, he was so tired and worn and ruined, and the furies were ripping his kingdom apart and killing all of his people, and I stopped everything. He took my hand, and I brought him with me to the sunless lands.

So we arrived, and he just… You have to understand. We are the Endless. We don't "live." Death is not exactly the most traumatic thing that can happen to us. Technically, the person who'd been my brother since the beginning of existence was just one incarnation of the anthropomorphic personification of the Dream. And on top of that, he'd been breathing and eating and drinking and learning and creating worlds and hanging out with me and fucking mortals (quite happily, I might add) since the dawn of time. He'd had a damn long run. He seemed ready to go.

But we got to the sunless lands, landed with a bump on the grass, and Morpheus, probably the strongest, most collected person I've ever known, lost it. Fell on his knees, barfed sand everywhere, yes, I said sand, and collapsed. It was so sudden and jarring, and utterly stupid. I just knelt there and stared at him like an idiot. He was on his side in a near fetal position, wearing nothing but a pair of tight black jeans. I always liked those jeans on him. Even told him they made his ass look hot, but he never believed me. And right then, he looked anything but hot. Sand was spilling out of the corners of his mouth and trickling out his nose. The sight made me gag. I'd brought my brother here, at his request, and he was hurting and sick. The most awful part of it, of seeing him like that, was realizing that I hadn't even done my job right. He just wasn't ready to go.

So I got down on the grass with him and cradled his head in my lap and the tears started coming, and they wouldn't stop. I must have apologized to him six times in as many seconds. I probably said some other things too. I don't remember. But finally I wiped my face, pulled it together, and took out a blanket. I spread it on the grass and wrapped him up, and took him back to my house, because a) the Way Station was too far, b) he's my freakin' little brother (even if he's taller than I am), and c) I have a guest room.

I like my house. It's comfortably messy. The kitchen is always in disarray, my office is hopeless, and my bedroom is unsightly because I throw my underwear everywhere when I get in from work and change for bed, but no one comes to visit (it's just not healthy) so I don't care. Morph was kind of a neat freak, though, so I'm glad he slept through his entire trip. He was light as a feather in my arms.

I trekked through the cluttered hallways to the guest bedroom and set him down on the bed. It was a rickety old thing with sheets that hadn't been changed in a couple millennia. The room was full of dust and completely dark.

This would never do. I waved my hands and a window appeared. Whenever I make a window, I always make it with the sun setting outside. Sunset's my favorite time of day. Another wave and the air cleared. The old bed became a luxurious mahogany thing with a white canopy and clean cotton sheets. My brother was buried snugly under the covers, wearing comfortable black pajamas, his black hair looking like an ink stain on the pillow. I sat down by his side, fished around in the blankets for his hand, and took it again.

Morpheus was so different at the beginning of the universe --- all friendly and round and fun to play with, with his little chubby cheeks and bright eyes and firm sense of self. I remember the way he used to play tag with me and fall all over his robe, which was way too long for him. I would laugh and point and he would say "harrumph!" and insist that he would eventually "grow into it." Looking down at the tall, skinny, wasted man in the bed, I could still see that child.

I still had work to do, and I was doing it. But my work was shoddy and half-assed that day. Little bits of me were all over the place, taking living things to their final destination. (I think the only bit of me that showed up for the death of some ants in the rainforest was a leg. Totally unhelpful.) Most of me was here with my brother. I sat with him all night, watching him sleep. I knew better than to wonder what he was dreaming about.

He woke up in the morning and looked a little better. I smiled at him as he rubbed his eyes and managed to sit up. I got him to eat some toast and drink some apple juice. We talked about nothing. And finally he got up out of bed, put on his jeans, and thanked me for watching over him. I told him he was always welcome. He gave me this wan smile. I realized I'd just accidentally made an incredibly bad joke.

Morpheus wasn't interested in shoes, but I managed to give him a t-shirt for his last trip. Picked it up in London a few years ago. It's too bad that he just threw it on and didn't stop to read it. It was black and it said in white letters, "11. Thou shalt not **f a r t** in the house of the Lord."

Well, _I_ thought it was funny. Anyway. I took his hand so he wouldn't get lost, and we left my house and wandered into the green meadows of the sunless lands. We meandered past the Way Station, full of the moans of the sick and tiny popping noises --- newly well souls being released to the great unknown --- and we kept going, headed toward a distant rise. He was silent the whole way. I let him keep his thoughts to himself. I owed him that much. We kept walking until we were in sight of the crossroads, where my brother would meet his messenger and go to his final destination. I let go of his hand and put an arm around him instead. It shocked me when he put an arm around me. Morphie was never very demonstrative.

And I sidestepped a small rock and asked him, "You were ready, right? I did the right thing?"

We stopped suddenly. He turned to me and took me by the shoulders, and his eyes twinkled at me, even though his face was firm as ever. "Of course I was ready. Of course you did the right thing. Never doubt yourself, sister."

I had to lighten the mood a little so I said, "Never apologize, never explain?"

"Never." He was (as usual) completely serious. "Sister, I… I was scared. At the moment you took me, I had a moment… I panicked. I wasn't sure I wanted to go. But it was too late. That made the landing very hard."

He actually looked sheepish. It made me smile. So I said to him, "It's okay. Everyone gets scared. Are you still scared?"

And he took my hand and said "no," very quietly, and I knew he was telling the truth. He wasn't afraid anymore.

We had reached the crossroads. Two dirt paths that connected right where we stood kept going in opposite directions for as far as either of us could see. The sky was a forget-me-not blue, the grass turned a brilliant, emerald green, and the dirt was warm under our feet. A sudden wind kicked up, and we were bathed in golden light. Golden light is piercing, heavy stuff. You have to keep your head down and not even try to look at it, because if you do it'll burn your eyeballs out. So, both of us were staring at the ground, squinting even though we were looking away from the light. I saw my hip black boots and my brother's feet. He calmly wiggled his toes in the dust, waiting. He didn't seem to give a shit that wherever he was going, he'd arrive barefoot. Then again Morpheus never gave the impression that he gave much of a shit about anything, even though I know he gave a tremendous shit about everything. It was one of his best talents, if you ask me.

The light was all around us. The time was close. I did something dumb. It was impulsive and stupid and pretty greedy, but I didn't care. I wrapped my arms around Morph and hugged him tight, because I had to let him know what he meant to me before he left. He hugged me back. I squeezed my eyes shut and let the tears come again, and I held onto my little brother until there was the mighty sound of beating wings and I was left holding empty air.

It's a fresh pain, this one. The wake was two weeks ago. All the rituals have been taken care of, and a new Dream has taken over the helm. And most of the time, I'm okay. I can hold it together on the job. But I still dream at night, and my new brother isn't powerful enough yet to help me with the nightmares. I've woken up in the old guest bedroom a few times, clinging to the sheets of the bed, sobbing so hard that my stomach aches and wondering how the hell I got in there. Once I sleepwalked into the kitchen and thought I saw him digging in the cabinets for Cheerios. And sometimes the missing him hurts so much that I want to end myself. But I can't do that (it's a metaphorical tangle and ultimately pointless), and anyway, if it's one thing my brother was always big on, it was duty. If I stopped doing my job out of some ridiculous frailty like grief, well … he wouldn't hurt me, but he'd give me one of those disapproving glares that could stop a train.

Morphie, I miss you. I love you. And I hope wherever you are, you're free and unafraid.

END

Comments? Go ahead and click the button. Thanks for reading! :)


End file.
